


Mistral Gagnant

by elephantastic



Series: whatever service I may be [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Porn with Feelings, service top Baze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 18:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10366698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantastic/pseuds/elephantastic
Summary: Being Chirrut occasionally gets to be a bit much, Baze helps him settle back into his skin.Or, sometimes taking care of each other means tender emotional support and soft kisses. Sometimes it means kicking the shit out of each other and fucking up against a wall (with a generous helping of feelings and aftercare because I'm a massive sap, apparently).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Re: the implied child abuse tag, there's nothing explicit and it happens in the past but if you want more details before reading you can ask me about it on [tumblr](http://benevolentbridgetroll.tumblr.com/ask/).
> 
> Thank you Leila for the beta work <3

Everyone hates the devil wind. It comes from the North-East, beyond the hulking peaks of the Barats, where rising air currents channel it into the deep valley carved by an ancient and long-dried up river. It barrels down the relatively clear terrain, gaining force over hundreds of miles before exploding onto the old floodplains in a furious, bitingly cold gale that chaps knuckles, tears off shutters and, according to old folk tales, drives both sentients and animals mad.

NiJedha, perched on its rocky promontory, gets thoroughly battered. And on days like this where the wind sweeps through the temple, shrieking down corridors and sneaking into the interstices around windows and doors, everyone is on edge.

Chirrut has known worse. As a child, he lived in the arid steppes at the foot of the mountains. He remembers the walls of the low family tent straining under the onslaught and his father’s always mercurial temper flaring up explosively in enforced close quarters.

Everyone hates the devil wind, but it is always a special kind of torment to Chirrut. He is mostly able to tame his disquiet; quash it into a manageable aggravation that eats at his calm and makes him snappish and irritable. But sometimes the electricity in the air gets under his skin, and that morning he wakes up to a deep knot of unease in his stomach and the dream-memory of purple welts left by a belt strap on his elder sister’s arms.

Chirrut is sufficiently self-aware to admit he’s too easily riled up, for a Guardian. As all Guardians should, he strives for inner peace and emotional balance. His training has helped him leash his temper and better deal with his wild mood swings. And though his sharp edges will never be completely worn smooth, he's become excessively proficient at masking them beneath easy smiles and witty charm. However, constant restraint takes its toll and there are days where Chirrut worries that his lithe build isn’t the only thing he has inherited from his father.

So he gets up and tries to swallow the tension sitting heavy in his jaw. He manages to smile at Baze as they go their separate ways for their morning chores. He manages to power through his shift in the barn despite the animals reflecting his jumpiness at him in an endless feedback loop until they're all so highly strung he could cry. He manages to sit still for a grand total of six minutes over lunch, just long enough to scarf down his food, leg jiggling restlessly all the while. He painstakingly goes through his forms to try and expel some negative energy despite the terrible pressure building inside his rib cage in concert with the high-pitched whistle of the wind through the air vents.

And on his way to the archives, he almost punches Taulupe in the throat for the minor offence of spooking him by unexpectedly poking xir head out of a door with a question about a scroll he'd borrowed last week.

Chirrut makes a monumental effort to pull the weak threads of his self-control back around himself and answer xir as evenly as possible, but he knows Taulupe can feel the tension rolling off him. As xe's about to beat a hasty retreat, Taulupe takes a deep breath as if steeling xirself to say something. However, xe quickly thinks better of it and turns away with a sigh and a pointed "May you find serenity in the Force."

Chirrut shakes his head. Like every household, the temple has its set of unspoken rules: never eat the last red bean baozi without asking Master Ghien if she wants it first; always leave the window in the first floor washroom unlatched at night so that Am, the temple feline, can come home to his basket tucked in next to the heating pipes; and when Chirrut Imwe is having one of his bad days, steer clear.

Chirrut is both resentful and thankful for this particular rule. While it serves as a biting reminder of his failings, he is absurdly grateful for the bubble of space that forms around him as the apprentices and acolytes take their cues from the older initiates and give him room to breathe. Especially since it goes hand in hand with most Masters pretending not to know that he occasionally sneaks out of the temple to let off steam by playing vigilante or starting a bar-fight or two.

Chirrut is at breaking point. He's kept himself in check for as long as he possibly could, but now afternoon classes are almost over and he feels entitled to some solace—a word which for him is ever increasingly becoming synonymous with the serious, steadfast man he calls husband. So he heads off Baze-wards in hopes of exorcising the venom seeping out through the cracks in his facade.

 

 

As Chirrut stalks into the room where Baze is putting a group of acolytes through their paces, he feels several sets of eyes snap to him. He instinctively twitches to try and shake the sensation. Long practice has mostly taught him to ignore the way people stare like they think he can’t tell. But right now his composure is stretched as thin and taut as the skins on the temple's ceremonial drums and their gazes prickle over his skin like nettle burns.

Baze is sparring in a corner, Chirrut can hear the bells on his sleeve. He makes his way across the room and is annoyed by how unsteady his voice sounds as he snaps, “My turn.”

After a moment of surprise, Chirrut feels Baze's attention settle on him properly. It only takes him a second to put two and two together.

"Alright, it'll make for a good demo. Let me just finish with Iman," Baze allows.

Chirrut, impassive, doesn't bother answering. Instead, he rounds on the acolyte.

“I'll spar with you if you let me borrow Brother Malbus."

A titter goes round the room and the acolyte almost trips over herself to accept. Although Chirrut is happy to demonstrate, he never actively trains the younger cohorts. He can't stand their fawning adoration over his prowess any more than he can their poorly disguised pity over his blindness. And besides, he's never been a very patient teacher.

Chirrut drops his staff by the edge of the practice mat.

The acolyte folds her fist inside her palm in the traditional pre-match salute and inclines her head. Chirrut isn't feeling generous so he bows perfunctorily in return and, as Baze sighs heavily in the background, knocks her on her back in two moves.

Then he turns back to Baze and repeats, “My turn.”

Baze barely has time to bend his knees and bring his hands up before Chirrut is moving. Quick as an adder, he gets behind Baze’s guard, nocks a foot into Baze’s hip and uses the leverage to try and knee him in the face. Baze’s sharp reflexes are the only thing that save him from a broken nose as he rears back and uses both palms to break Chirrut’s momentum. By the time Chirrut lands again, Baze has rallied and delivers a hard hit to Chirrut’s solar plexus, sending him staggering back two paces.

This is why Chirrut needed Baze. He neither wants to be careful, nor be met with care in return. He knows Baze can keep up and so he can allow himself to be sloppy and vicious, shedding the formal trappings of zama-shiwo and the suffocating constraints of his own self-discipline. Chirrut bares his teeth, already relishing the ache in his chest, and lunges forward.

He aims a high kick at the side of Baze’s neck, but Baze has already ducked and proceeds to ram his shoulder into Chirrut’s exposed inner thigh. Chirrut grunts as Baze bears him down to the ground and instinctively tightens his legs, trying to put him in a chokehold. Baze still has an arm free however and brutally elbows him in the stomach. Chirrut gasps in pain but grabs hold of Baze’s arm and twists it up while adjusting the grip of his legs. In the meantime, Baze has managed to wriggle his other hand around and savagely digs his fingers into a nerve in Chirrut’s thigh that makes his leg seize painfully.

They break apart, both on their knees, already breathing faster. Chirrut feels Baze watching him almost warily and tenses, worried he’s pushed too far.

“That’s enough.” Chirrut heart sinks; Baze is going to make him tap out and talk about it.

But Baze raises his voice. “I'm letting you off the last ten minutes of class. Get out, all of you.”

And then his focus zeroes back in on Chirrut whose entire body starts singing with the promise of a challenge. He can practically taste the sharp, inviting smirk on Baze’s mouth as he baits him, “Well, come on then.”

Fifteen minutes later, their sparring match has devolved into a messy brawl tinged with arousal neither of them are trying to hide. Chirrut is straddling Baze’s heaving chest and he gives an experimental roll of his hips just to hear Baze groan.

“Chirrut, I don’t care how keyed up you are. I’m not fucking you in the practice room.”

“Guess we’ll have to relocate then. I need a drink anyway.”

Chirrut slides to his feet, making sure to maximise the drag of his hardening dick down Baze’s stomach as he does so. He turns away and heads to the door without offering his partner a hand up or so much as a backward glance. The frustrated growl he hears from Baze is enough to send a shiver up his spine. That’s exactly how he wants him.

 

 

When they reach their shared quarters Chirrut has mostly got his breath back. This turns out to be an exercise in futility as Baze crowds him against the wall and kisses it all out of him again. Chirrut is surprised by the faint tang of blood in his mouth and realises he must have split Baze's lip at some point during their fight. He'll have to apologise. Later.

For now he has more pressing concerns and shoves a thigh between Baze’s to try and escalate the situation. Baze groans into his mouth and can't seem to resist grinding his hips down a little. But he quickly gets hold of himself and pulls away completely, telling Chirrut to stay put in a tone that brooks no argument.

When Baze comes back a moment later to press a glass of water into his hand, Chirrut can't help a pang of tenderness.

This particular dynamic has long since become an established part of their relationship. Sometimes Chirrut needs to push and feel Baze push back; push him back into his skin and make it alive with something other than the maddening itch of his own wildness. Although his personal inclinations lay elsewhere, Baze is invariably willing to give Chirrut what he needs, and so he makes himself into something hard and unyielding for Chirrut to break himself against. But Baze regularly uses gestures such as this one to reassert his boundaries and remind them both that this is first and foremost an act of service.

Once Chirrut has set the glass aside, Baze takes his mouth again, hands deftly untying knots, unfastening buttons and pushing fabric out of the way until Chirrut is bare before him. Chirrut attempts to reciprocate, desperate to access bare skin he knows is just out of reach, but Baze shrugs him off. Rough palms map out the lines of Chirrut's torso. Baze's touch is not gentle but it is grounding and, as always when he lays hands on Chirrut, almost reverent.

"Baze, if you don't stop teasing me I'm going to start trying to hit you again."

Chirrut feels a faint huff of laughter ghost over his cheek before Baze folds to his knees in front of him, one hand gripping Chirrut’s hip, the other guiding his cock past his lips. Chirrut gasps and bows forward, stomach muscles tensing as Baze swallows him fast and deep, not bothering any with finesse.

Baze's touch leaves him and Chirrut has time to resent the absence for all of a second before Baze suddenly hefts his right thigh up over his shoulder. Caught by surprise, Chirrut wobbles off-balance but Baze loops an arm around his leg and splays a hand out on Chirrut’s stomach to stabilise him.

Chirrut feels a slick finger rubbing behind his balls and has a strange, detached moment where he thinks that Baze must have brought the lube back with him at the same time as the glass of water. Which means he has decided that they won't make it any further than this wall. This suits Chirrut just fine and he submits to the curls of pleasure radiating through his body, his world narrowing to the bubble of their arousal: the smell of their sweat, the wet noises coming from Baze’s mouth around his cock and the feel of his lover’s fingers slowly pressing into him.

He tilts his hips to try and get more, quicker. Baze makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat and pulls off Chirrut’s cock to sink a sharp bite into his inner thigh. Chirrut swears but Baze releases him almost immediately to smooth lips and tongue over the abused skin.

"You will be patient, and I will have you," he says, his voice a hoarse growl as he crooks his fingers up inside Chirrut, anticipating a bratty response and effectively silencing it.

Baze gives himself over to dedicatedly opening Chirrut up, adding a third finger and hollowing his cheeks around Chirrut's dick until Chirrut is panting with the effort of holding his orgasm at bay.

"Baze, aah. Wait. Stop."

Chirrut ineffectually tries to leverage Baze off him by his shorn hair before getting a firm grip on his ears and tugging. Baze finally concedes and pulls his fingers out of Chirrut to wrap them tightly around the base of his cock.

Chirrut gives up on the idea of staying upright. He slides down the wall and into Baze’s lap, one hand coming up to steady himself against the door jamb to his right, fingers of the other curving around the back of Baze’s skull to drag him into a deep, messy kiss. His leg has slipped from Baze’s shoulder to the crook of his elbow and he can feel Baze's straining erection snug against his ass.

"Baze, get the fuck on with it."

"Yes, love. Let me just..." Baze braces Chirrut against the wall and uses his free hand to push his own trousers down his hips.

When Baze sinks into him it's slow but feels as inexorable as the roll of planets. Chirrut has to concentrate, forcing his body to relax and allow the intrusion. Baze lets out a long shuddering breath as he seats himself fully inside and Chirrut takes a moment to wonder if it will always feel like this, intense and overwhelming and utterly glorious. Baze works his hips in tiny circles and sucks a mark into Chirrut's shoulder while he lets him adjust. When Chirrut starts wriggling impatiently in his lap again, Baze hooks his elbow under Chirrut's other leg to spread him wide, and starts thrusting in earnest.

Pleasure ignites up Chirrut's spine and he roughly tugs Baze's shirt open, sending it slipping halfway down his back as he scrabbles for purchase on Baze's rolling, sweat-slick shoulders; his mouth tripping over a broken stream of moans and curses and other meaningless, fervent noises.

Completely penned in by Baze's bulk, Chirrut is shivery and exultant with the helplessness that this position affords him. Baze usually doesn't like to flaunt his physical might, preferring to lead by example and the sheer force of his personality. This makes his rare displays of power all the more heady, and the fact that he's currently pouring all of his considerable strength and endurance into fucking Chirrut senseless is almost unbearably obscene.

"Nnngh. Chirrut... so beautiful like this."

Since Baze has enjoyed describing it in vivid detail while fucking him in the past, Chirrut knows that 'like this' means Chirrut with his mouth wet and open, flushed all the way down his chest, taking everything Baze gives him. But he also knows that Baze means something entirely different; means Chirrut angry, unguarded and exposed. Baze has never shied away from the harsher aspects of him, loving Chirrut's ugly imperfections just as much as any other private part of himself Chirrut has ever chosen to show him.

Chirrut is desperately close and wraps a shaking hand around his cock. It only takes a few hard strokes before he comes, hard but quietly, toes curling mid-air and face screwed up in ecstasy. Baze fucks him through it, whispering beatific praise into the skin under his jaw, then stills to let him come down.

"Are you ok to keep going?"

In response, Chirrut bites the place where he knows Baze's lip is split and growls, "Yes, stop messing around and fuck me."

A snarl rumbles through Baze's chest as his hips take on a punishing rhythm. Chirrut tips his head back with a grin, exhilarated and a little smug at the feeling of his kind, considerate Baze showing a little sharpness of his own and selfishly taking his pleasure from Chirrut's body.

When Baze's movements take on a frantic kind of tension, Chirrut starts muttering strained encouragement.

"Yes, fuck! Baze, my Baze you feel so good. You're so good to me. Come for me, Baze."

Baze does in a hot, wet rush deep inside him, and if anyone could hear the thoughts running through Chirrut's head in that moment, he would undoubtedly be punished for blasphemy.

Baze's thrusts slow almost to nothing as he pants into the sticky curve of Chirrut's shoulder. Chirrut turns his head to place kisses on any piece of Baze he can reach, nuzzling into his ear and the side of his neck.

Baze gingerly lowers Chirrut’s legs and they both twitch reflexively as the movement makes Baze's softening cock slip out of Chirrut. Chirrut can feel Baze's thighs trembling with exertion under him and his heart swells when the fool still makes a heroic but ultimately unsuccessful attempt at lifting Chirrut up, presumably to carry him to bed like a newlywed or some such nonsense.

He laughs softly into Baze’s temple.

"My love, I think we’ll each have to make our own way."

Baze huffs in agreement. They disentangle themselves clumsily, abused muscles protesting and sweat turning clammy on their skin.

 

 

Chirrut goes willingly as Baze pushes him into the ‘fresher in the corner of their room. The stall is too small for the both of them and Chirrut regularly laments with melodramatic gusto all the missed opportunities for 'fresher sex. But for now, he’s quite happy to wash himself and gently come back down to earth while Baze bustles about in the background, humming all the while to reassure Chirrut of his presence.

When Chirrut staggers out from under the spray, Baze presses a towel into his hands and a quick kiss to his lips before slipping into the cubicle.

By the time Baze emerges, Chirrut has decided that his legs have done quite enough in supporting him through his turn in the 'fresher and has sat himself down on the toilet lid to air dry. Baze assesses him for a handful of seconds before heaving an almighty sigh and going to root around in their medicine cabinet.

The familiar smell of arnica paste hits Chirrut’s nose and he hears Baze grunt as he goes to his knees for Chirrut once again. Chirrut almost tells him it isn’t necessary, but catches himself. He knows that Baze needs this, and now that the post-orgasmic glow has faded a little, Chirrut can feel all the places where he aches.

“Is this ok?” Baze asks quietly.

Chirrut hums his assent and relaxes further as Baze rubs salve into the bruises that are already starting to bloom across his skin. He flinches when Baze presses a particularly sore spot high up on his stomach. The way Baze hisses in a breath in response makes him regret it straightaway.

“I’m sorry, love.”

Baze's voice is heavy with self-recrimination. Wholly unwarranted as far as Chirrut is concerned.

He reaches out a questing hand which Baze immediately brings to his face. Chirrut smooths his thumb over the furrow between Baze’s brows in a well-practiced gesture and follows it up by carefully pressing their foreheads together.

“Don’t fret dear heart, I’m alright. Better than alright in fact.”

Baze nods but the unhappy set of his eyebrows compels Chirrut to straighten up and add snootily, "Besides, I think I gave as good as I got, no?"

This earns Chirrut a chuckle and although Baze still makes every swipe of his fingers over Chirrut's skin feel like an apology, he seems to have shaken off the guilty weight that had Chirrut worried.

Once Baze has finished with Chirrut, he tends to his own bruises and cleans up.

Neither of them ready to abandon this intimate, liminal space quite yet, they fall into bed together—Chirrut wrapped in Baze’s arms, his head against Baze's chest. His darkness begins with the warm smell of Baze’s skin and ends with the sound of his love’s heartbeat. He drifts.

After a while Chirrut starts to overheat so he disentangles himself from Baze and goes to sit in the chair by the window. The wind is still rattling the pane but his blood has settled and it no longer chafes at his soul.

He runs his fingers up his inner thigh, feeling along the edges of the tender skin where Baze has left the mark of his teeth, claiming Chirrut for himself and for the temple. Anchoring him so that he does not get blown away by the bitter wind or his own volatile temper.

Baze groans from the bed. Chirrut angles his face back towards him.

“What?”

“I didn't stretch and tomorrow I’m doing the fourth duan demonstration with Master Ghien. I’m going to die, Chirrut.”

Mirth bubbles up in Chirrut's chest and he can hear the smile hiding behind Baze's indignant tone as he berates him.

“Stop laughing at my misery. I don't even have the strength to get up and shut you up.”

Well-fucked and feeling magnanimous for it, Chirrut climbs back into bed where he lets Baze roll halfway on top of him and quiet his snickering with slow, languid kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the most grossly erotic [fight of Donnie Yen’s career](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XclQ1tz3MWM) and this fantastic piece of nsfw art by [jadenvargen](http://jadenvargen.tumblr.com/post/157739512810/lost-bladesman-fanart-4-all-my-friends). 
> 
> Also the baozi are directly imported from [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10084532) by chuchisushi which you should definitely go read if you haven't already.


End file.
